


Care

by little_ogre



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Character Study, M/M, emotions are difficult, mentions of faked suicide, nothing happens, second season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 12:40:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1018732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little_ogre/pseuds/little_ogre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thinks the phrase “in love” just sounds so incredibly naff and personally, like most things supposedly good for him, like broccoli and not smoking, he finds it a pain in the backside</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care

Privately Sherlock thinks the phrase “in love” just sounds so incredibly naff.

So this is caring, the grit in the great machine of intellect.

Sherlock turns the word over in his mouth, letting it resonate in his throat, _Caare-iing_ , trying to associate and integrate it with this new, strange feeling for John. When people say that “they care” this is what they mean. When people angrily ask him “Don't you care?” this is what they mean. Sherlock _cares_ for John.  See Sherlock care. Care, Sherlock, care.

 A twinge under his ribcage, an elevated heart rhythm, his brain producing serotonin and dopamine as a response to John’s presence. An irrational wish to make John happy, but he has no idea how to do so, since what keeps Sherlock happy is an interesting problem, a murder by preference, and, above all, not being bored. What makes John happy seems to be the most incongruous things, like regular meals and reading, which is so tedious and dull. Sherlock has no more interest in regular meals or in providing them for John, happy or not, than he has in the dark side of the moon.

It's an odd feeling, and as an experience he suspects its good for him, or at the very least for his deductive powers. If something is known but not experienced it is easier to overlook, and emotions are powerful motivators. Sherlock, insofar he admits to any weakness or faults, knows his understanding of the emotional spectrum can be somewhat limited. Not enough to make him actually _wrong_ about anything, but still, slightly limited.

 Personally, like most things supposedly good for him, like broccoli and not smoking, he finds it a pain in the backside. It's boring, it keeps him from making the most of John’s usefulness, and it distracts him and slows him down. Occasionally however, it makes him faster and to his utter shame there's nothing, nothing like basking in the warm glow of John’s approval.

 _Caring_. It started innocently; a thoughtless wish to impress John, to see that incongruous, I-can-not-believe-you-just-did-that- look on his face, and making him giggle when he shouldn't, preferably in front of Anderson or a corpse. And now he can't remember the last time he was so desperate for somebody’s attention. It's very much like a low-grade drug, that tiny kick that make the interminably boring world bearable. A bit like the soft fuzziness of the edges brought on by the patches, both a distraction and a focus at once. It is possible that it has gone slightly beyond the realm of _care_ now and transgressed into some deeper feeling but he is not prepared to use the detested phrase _in love_ and Sherlock has never _fancied_ anyone in his entire life, nor does he intend to.

He isn’t so sure about sex yet, if it can be considered the logical conclusion to this, if he wants it or not. At the moment the possibility of wanting it is more interesting than the possibility of actually having sex. The possibility of wanting contains more because it has the potential of everything, rather than the sex, which just contains the potential of him and John. That, as a thought is both repulsive and fascinating. It is something new and Sherlock turns it over in his mind like a shiny problem, trying to catch the light at every angle. Sex or not sex, wanting and having.

John is sleeping on the sofa, oblivious to the turmoil he is causing.

"Tea?" John calls; he's puttering about in the kitchen but hasn't found Sherlock’s most recent experiment in the fridge yet. He has been to work and then took the tube and walked home; he's slightly later than he should be so most likely he's talked to Sarah. Sherlock guesses about this winters coming flu epidemic (it has been worrying John) and about Harry, it seems at that stage where personal information is revealed and volunteered, as if it is necessary to actually say those things out loud when the signs are there for anyone to read (in John’s rolled up cardigan sleeve, the worn instep of his shoe and minute scratches on his mobile phone).

 "Tea?" is the first thing he has said to Sherlock since he walked in the door but he has considered raising the subject about the wet towel decomposing in the bathroom sink twice and then thought the better of it (Sherlock needs the towel to decompose for fiber analysis anyway).

Sherlock is on his third niccotine patch and hasn't eaten in two days and thinks that yes, maybe tea would be nice. It would slow him down but at this stage he needs to slow down just a little, so he can catch up with what he is actually thinking and not become overloaded with observations and conclusions, the important ones and the unimportant jumbled in an incoherent tangle.

"If you don't mind," he calls back.

John makes him tea, builders tea with milk and no sugar, two biscuits unbidden on the side (the nice chocolate covered ones, not just plain digestives, Mrs Hudson must have left them on the landing), and puts it on the table beside the sofa with an absentminded pat on the back of Sherlock's head. He smells of hand disinfectant and hospital and his shirt smells of outdoors, traffic and autumn sun. There is a faint trace of sesame oil that Sherlock is not quite sure what to make of yet, maybe something he had for his lunch, there is a little Thai place just across the road from the surgery. He has to struggle not to lean back into the touch like a cat, pushing his head against John’s hand. Catch his hand and follow the scent up to the soft sensitive skin in the inside of John’s elbow.

Sherlock can’t stand hugs but John’s touches, doled out in small, careful pats and brushes are tantalizing in their scarcity. Hints of the truth are of course never more satisfying than knowing all of it, but in a way just having all of the pieces of a puzzle can be more interesting than fitting them together. If Sherlock worried much past the absolute and immediate future, or about something else than being bored, he might worry about that. That one day he might grow bored with John that the ridiculous, completely unwarranted fondness he feels right now might just melt away. Sometimes wanting is more satisfying than having, it is not logical but it is so. At the moment Sherlock thinks he might be satisfied with just wanting, it’s new after all and he wants to savor it while it’s still interesting and shiny, a sleek hypothetical theory, unmarred by tedium and reality.

There is also the very real possibility of John not wanting him.

John seems devoted to Sherlock in a grudging, absentminded sort of way. The same way one would be quite fond of an annoying dog that keeps throwing up on the carpet but occasionally preforms useful tricks (not that Sherlock is in any way comparable to an annoying dog, but John definitely gets a look on his face sometimes that means Sherlock has done the metaphorical social equivalent of throwing up on the carpet, _again_ ).

But John is also quite fond of walking without a limp and its logical to suppose that as long as he remains fond of that he will remain fond of Sherlock. Fond never got anyone laid though. If a physical relationship is the endgame here, Sherlock doesn’t know yet. For the first time the theory won’t come clear in his mind, there are pieces of data missing (does he even like sex? He might have tried it and deleted it on a later occasion, probably in order to better remember geographical postcodes in the greater London area, which doesn’t really make a great case for it). For now its quite interesting though, with the tea cooling on the table beside him and John quietly pottering about in the flat, something to think about. There is no urgency, John is not going anywhere, Sherlock is not going anywhere, and he can take his time to figure it out.

 

Until there is Jim Moriarty and suddenly there is no time for leisurely contemplation. He stands on the edge of the roof of St Bart’s, listening to John’s voice cracking on the phone and he thinks, _I should’ve, we should have_ , but there is no time for the thought to stay. He has things to do and maybe it is better this way, after all, you can’t miss something you’ve never had. And Sherlock absolutely refuses to miss John. He won’t think about whether or not John will miss him, as it’s likely but unavoidable. He much prefers John inconvenienced by missing him rather than dead from knowing he's alive so there is nothing to be done about it. But later as he is trying to fall asleep in a strange bed, with cold scratchy sheets around him, he thinks of that afternoon, of John touching his hair, absentmindedly, his hand gently curling around the bone in Sherlock’s skull and he thinks _I should’ve, I should have at least…_

 

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies for any mistakes, this is un-Beta'd and English is not my first language.


End file.
